


Twenty and One

by McFearo



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Child Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Legion camaraderie, Slavery, backstory for Dixie Greene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McFearo/pseuds/McFearo
Summary: "I saidcount!"Again, that stinging pain through his back, and when he screamed this time, he just managed to shape it into the wordthree.He'd earned this.Quintus might never recover, the healers had told Hadrian, as Damianus stood at silent attention beside him.This was his punishment for the destruction of Caesar’s property.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Twenty and One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for description of an adolescent being whipped, and brief description of an adolescent being badly beaten.
> 
> It's not a happy story. Dead bird, don't eat.

He was too short. Just old enough for it, Hadrian maintained to the priestess, but too small to properly tie into the rope threaded through a hole in the top of the post -- not without dangling his feet off the ground, like a jackrabbit strung up for dressing. He could just reach the rope if he stood on tip-toe, get his hands around the loops of it, but not through.

"That will have to be good enough," Hadrian said behind him, voice grim. "You'll have extra if you let go, boy. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Damianus said, not turning to look back. He stood on his toes, arms already straining from reaching to hold onto the rope, his tunic tied around his waist to bare his back to the Centurion, and to his contubernia and a half dozen other tent groups standing in formation beyond him.

"Count," Hadrian ordered, and that was the only warning he received before the first lash burned through his back.

The pain wracked through Damianus so hot and sudden, he was struck breathless and dumb -- almost didn't feel it for a moment, couldn't get the air in to scream.

"Count!"

He did scream for the second one.

"I said  _ count _ _!_ "

Again, that stinging pain through his back, and when he screamed this time, he just managed to shape it into the word  _ three _ .

He'd earned this.

Quintus might never recover, the healers had told Hadrian, as Damianus stood at silent attention beside him.

This was his punishment for the destruction of Caesar’s property.

"Four!"

Quintus had been on him since the day they'd met. He was Legion born, like Damianus, unlike the rest of the boys in their contubernium -- all former tribals and townsfolk. That gave the two of them a kind of seniority over the others, but Quintus didn't aim to share leadership, not with the runt of the litter.

It was only Erasmus who kept Quintus at bay when he was spoiling for a fight, these days. Cotton-haired Erasmus gangled at all angles, but he was the tallest of all of them. Already eye level with the priestesses at eleven, when they took him from Hatch, and bound to get taller everyone said. And he fought like Mars made him with fire in his veins where blood should be, like he was boiling with hate and just waiting every day for an excuse to let it out on someone.

And he stuck to Damianus' side like he'd been tied to him around the hips, since that first day they met, when he came south to train after Hatch burned down.

Quintus had given Damianus his share of beatings when they were younger, but he wouldn't come for him when Erasmus was around, which was always since he'd arrived. Almost always. Pity he'd finally found Damianus alone when Erasmus was on patrol.

Pity for both of them.

"Ten!" He sobbed.

Halfway there, Damianus told himself. He held onto the rope for dear life, his legs shaking under him.

He'd made it halfway. But each lash roared through him sharper and sharper, left another burning line in his back until they all blended together into one big sore so he couldn't feel where each one had been, but the next one was that much worse for the tenderness. He could feel a warm wet creeping down his lower back like sweat. Somewhere behind him, he knew, his contubernia stood watching, stock still and silent at attention, faces blank in neat and orderly rows.

Quintus had started the fight. But Damianus had finished it. Finished it so Quintus would never fight again, would never be right again. Did something to him, when he sat on his chest and punched his head, again and again until he stopped moving. Something you didn't come back from.

He'd had enough. He'd had enough of being the runt of the litter, of being pushed around but for Erasmus over his shoulder. He'd just wanted to end it, make sure it stopped whether Erasmus was there or not, make Quintus and boys like him just stopped coming for him. He'd only wanted to end it.

He hadn't meant to end Quintus' whole life.

"Fourteen!"

_ Crack _ . The numbers came out of his mouth rote, unable to think about them any longer. The words barely meant anything.

He called the next number.

_ Crack _

The next number.

_ Crack _

He sobbed, and couldn't remember the number he'd just said. His arms and legs were shaking violently and he couldn't remember what number he just said. Hadrian didn't wait.

_ Crack _

"Seventeen!" he screamed.

" _ Eighteen! _ " Erasmus' voice screamed back from somewhere far behind him.

" Who said that?! "

The lashings paused as Hadrian whipped around to face his contubernia and Damianus wished they hadn't. He could barely hold onto the rope. He couldn't let go, but he couldn't hold on any longer. He was almost done.

"Tell me! Who said that?"

Please. He was almost done. Twenty lashes and it was over. Please just let it be over.

It took every ounce of strength and willpower in him, and then some more, to hold on as Hadrian marched up and down the line behind him, demanding to know who had spoken out of turn. No one said anything.

He was crying as the Centurion took his time returning to him.

Please just let it be over.

He was given no warning before the lash cracked again.

"Nineteen!"

And again.

"Twenty!"

That was it. Twenty. He was done. He made it--

_ Crack _

He was too stunned to cry out.

"Say it!" Hadrian ordered.

"Twenty-- twenty one!" Damianus gasped through the tears. He couldn't hold on any longer. He was going to collapse. He was going to faint. He couldn't do another twenty, all for Erasmus' stupid, big fat mouth trying to help him, and just digging him deeper--

"That one was for losing count," Hadrian hissed behind him. "Go to the healers, trainee."

Damianus fell to his knees the moment he let go of the rope.

As he struggled to hold himself upright against the rough wooden post, against the blackness creeping into his vision, he heard Hadrian yelling at the others: "The rest of you, twenty one laps around the camp in formation. Go!"

They stampeded off, boots thumping against the sand, leaving Damianus alone.

"The healers, boy. Mars help you if you make me carry you there."

"Yes, sir," Damianus said, and pushed slowly to his feet.

He was stumbling over his own feet when he returned to camp, half from exhaustion, half from the bitter drink the women had poured down him to help the pain and keep him quiet as they worked the sickly yellow powder onto his back. The camp was quiet as he wove towards their tent, and Damianus was dimly aware of being watched, looking up to see dozens of eyes on him, peeking out of tent flaps and over bowls of whatever was for supper. No one said anything, they only watched him trudge past.

He was alone in the tent when he arrived, armor hanging in his arms. The others must not have finished their laps.

Damianus put his armor away in his footlocker and listlessly untied his bedroll, hands sluggish and weak, then rolled it out on the hard ground in his usual spot. Such simple work was long and gruelling, as exhausted as he was, as much as he wanted to collapse. And he did when it was done, face down on the thin bedroll, his tunic still tied around his waist and his boots still on.

He couldn't say how long he lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, when he heard panting breaths and footsteps. He opened his eyes to peek and saw the sun was getting low.

They were coming in carrying bowls, still catching their breath. They must have barely made it back in time to make the last meal line, and they filed in quietly. A boy he didn't recognize looked down at him wide-eyed, holding a bowl in each hand.

"Well, sit up and eat," Constans said into the stiff silence after a minute.

They watched him struggle upright, groaning, and said nothing as he settled on his backside atop the blanket, his whole body throbbing.

Erasmus stared at him a moment, and looked to the stranger, slapping him on the back of the head. "Hand it over, new boy."

The boy, a dark haired kid, scowled at Erasmus, but offered Damianus one of the bowls he carried, which he accepted with both hands still trembling. He wasn't hungry. He was starving, but he was nauseous. He peered at the new boy, who wouldn't meet his eyes, then looked to the others for an explanation.

"Sunsetter here was the ninth man in another tent group, so they moved him over," Erasmus said soberly, "He's the new Quintus, seeing as you killed our last one."

"Didn't kill him," Damianus said, voice coming out with a tired rasp despite his indignation.

"Yeah, yeah. As good as. Keep that in mind, Sunsetter," Erasmus said. "You don't want to end up like the old Quintus, you mind Damianus."

"We made him be the one to tell the slaves we needed an extra serving for you," Vito piped up around a mouthful of stew. He had some dripping down his chin and wiped it on the back of his hand as Damianus turned to look at him, then licked it off his hand. "They wouldn't have believed Erasmus."

"Nobody would believe Erasmus," said Erasmus, with a sagely nod.

"Thanks," Damianus said, prodding listlessly what looked like a chunk of potato. They watched him wordlessly, smacking at their meals, glancing at each other -- he could feel their stares, but with his back to the tent canvas at least they couldn't stare at that.

"You okay?" Erasmus asked quietly after a while.

"What do you think?" Damianus muttered, and heard the smack as Constans slapped Erasmus over the head.

"Ow!"

"He'll have to be okay tomorrow," Ferris announced. Damianus looked at him. "You're on regular training in the morning, Hadrian said when we reported back from our run."

"Hadrian can eat a fat one," Erasmus muttered, and Felix, sitting near the tent flap, opened his eyes wide, then rolled them behind him, peering out as if to make sure the Centurion wasn't roaming by. Taking his cue, Ferris took a surreptitious look out the other side, as Constans went to deliver another slap -- one Erasmus caught at the wrist and redirected back at Constans, hitting him across the face with his own hand.

"You son of a--!"

"Knock it off, you two," Damianus said sharply, and they froze, looking at him guiltily.

Dinner was quiet a while, after that. The whole evening was.

Eventually they'd all cleaned their meals up to the last dregs, even Damianus, despite his nausea -- he'd need the fuel come morning. Unless he wanted to fall behind and earn another beating. When they were done they made Sunsetter carry the bowls back to the women; the boy would have to earn his place all over again in their tent, whatever he had been in the last one's pecking order. Extra, from the sound of things.

"Who's not on watch tonight?" Marcellus asked as they settled. Felix, Ferris, Constans and Vito all raised their hands. Damianus didn't, and they all looked at him uneasily.

"Damianus," Felix said. "Trade you. I'm on tomorrow night."

He nodded, already listing sideways, ready to lay down and sleep as long as the pain and the harsh training schedule would let him -- which wouldn't be much.

Through the muzzy edges of something half approaching sleep -- still half dressed, still in his boots -- he listened to the others shuck their armor and file it away in their respective footlockers. His eyes flickered half open at movement from time to time, and he saw in installments the night coming on dark through the holes in the tent canvas as the others milled about in a respectful, reasonable hush and wound down for bed.

At last they all laid down in their respective places, except for Felix, already gone for the first watch patrol of the night.

Damianus sat up enough to roll his head to the other side and spy Erasmus on the bedroll next to his, in his usual place, a long and lanky shape in the dark but for his blond hair that nearly glowed in the faint moonlight.

"Erasmus," he whispered. "Erasmus," he tried again, a notch louder, when there was no answer, and painstakingly reached one arm out to nudge his shoulder.

"What?" Erasmus yawned.

"Thanks."

There was a pause, the sound of him turning his head to look at him in the dark.

"Yeah," said Erasmus. "Any time."

"I hope not," Damianus muttered.

"Me too."


End file.
